


Try Asking Nicely

by dracoqueen22



Series: Once Burned [5]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Minor Restraints, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Somewhat Rough Sex, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, marital bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starscream is the single most frustrating mech Ratchet has ever met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try Asking Nicely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skywinder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skywinder/gifts).



Nothing is perfect. Life is messy. Relationships are complex. Outcomes are uncertain. People are irrational.  
  
 _Starscream_ is irrational.   
  
Then again, Ratchet had known that from the beginning. He'd known what he was getting himself into and he can't claim otherwise.   
  
Ratchet likes routine. He likes for his world and the universe to make sense. He likes to know what's expected of him and how to meet those expectations.   
  
Meanwhile, Starscream is so bewilderingly complex, that Ratchet still hasn't figured out the best course of action. Not even years into their relationship.   
  
Knock Out laughing at him, telling him that he's gotten himself into this smelting pot and and he can get himself out of it, is not helping. Starscream is the single most frustrating mech Ratchet has ever met.   
  
What is it this time, he wonders as he paces back and forth in the corridor outside their shared quarters. Starscream had screeched at him, wings rigid and offended, and Ratchet hadn't fled for his spark. He'd made a strategic retreat until he could figure out where he'd gone wrong. Or right. It's hard to say with Starscream.   
  
A righteous irritation boils in Ratchet's spark. If that fragging Seeker thinks that Ratchet is going to apologize for something he didn't do, or some made up transgression, well, he is _greatly_ mistaken. Ratchet's an Autobot, not some weak-willed, sniveling, cowering--  
  
The door to their quarters slides open, Starscream peering out with his hands planted on his hips. “What the frag are you doing?” he demands.   
  
“What the frag am I doing?” Ratchet repeats, whirling toward his partner. “You're the one screeching about nothing!”   
  
“I don't screech!” Starscream retorts with a shrill edge.   
  
A screech, by any other name.   
  
“And you're the one pacing in the corridor like you forgot your own fragging door code,” Starscream adds, rolling his optics.   
  
“Forgot my...” Ratchet's jaw drops and then he storms forward. “That was the one time and as I recall, it was your fault.”   
  
Starscream's helm rears back, optics a dark pink. “My fault? I didn't force you to drink that Wrecker swill.”   
  
“You didn't stop me either.”   
  
“Since when am I responsible for your actions?” Starscream demands, wings flicking with irritation, his field clashing against Ratchet's in a familiar twisting-turn of heat and agitation. “I'm the one on probation here. Do you know how humiliating that is?”   
  
Ratchet throws his hands into the air. “That ended a decade ago!”   
  
Starscream huffs a ventilation. “And I remain emotionally damaged by the social stigma I carried. And did my oh-so-apologetic partner care? Not for a klik!”   
  
A low growl starts in Ratchet's engine and vibrates through his vocalizer. “I could have left you to rust out there, you know.”   
  
“You almost did, you fragger! I had to stop you with a missile!”   
  
“I came back,” Ratchet snaps, his plating bristling. He still remembers that close encounter as though it were yesterday. “And here you are, as ungrateful as always.”   
  
“Primus, you two. You have a room. Use it.”   
  
Ratchet startles, whirling around. He hadn't even heard the pedesteps approaching.   
  
Wheeljack's comment is accompanied by an optic roll as he walks past them, shaking his helm. “It's embarrassing the way you go at it.”  
  
Starscream smirks, leaning against the door frame. “I'm sensing jealousy, Wrecker. Care to join? I think I can talk Ratchet into a triad.”   
  
“Not on your spark,” Ratchet snarls, and pushes into their quarters, giving Starscream a shove on his shoulder.   
  
“Yeah. Think I'm going to have to agree with the Doc here. You two are a bucket of warped bolts enough as it is. See ya.” With a wave of his hand and another shake of his helm, Wheeljack disappears down the hallway.   
  
“You have so little imagination,” Starscream says, amusement thick in his tone as he follows Ratchet into their shared quarters, door sliding shut behind him.  
  
“That's because you delight in fragging me off,” Ratchet throws over his shoulder, anger making him twitchy, making him forget why he's even angry in the first place. Starscream just has that affect on mechs, he wagers.   
  
“Only because you're so cute when you're angry,” Starscream purrs and Ratchet whirls on a pede, feeling heat flush his faceplate as he catches sight of Starscream's smirk and arched wings.   
  
That fragged Seeker is _proud_ of himself. And there's a certain cant to his wings that Ratchet has grown to recognize over the course of their relationship. He should have known. This coming from the mech who spent a good portion of the war purposefully needling Megatron.   
  
Ratchet palms his faceplate. “I can't believe you,” he says even as his sensors register Starscream getting closer, near enough to feel the Seeker's heated ex-vents. And the tingling press of Starscream's field nudges into the nooks and crannies of Ratchet's own.   
  
“Really, doctor,” Starscream drawls, a copy of Wheeljack's trademark accent. “Two decades and you still haven't caught on?”   
  
Ratchet glares from between his fingers. “Oh, I've caught on. I just can't believe I'm still falling for it.”   
  
Starscream chuckles, leaning closer and tapping one claw on Ratchet's chestplate. “I can. I am, apparently, something of an addiction.”   
  
They are of a height though Starscream's wings tend to give the impression of looming. Not that this has ever made Ratchet intimidated.   
  
“One I, obviously, can't seem to cure,” Ratchet says and he snatches at the wing nearest to him, grip just tight enough to hold but not damage. He is rewarded with a sudden flare of Starscream's optics and pulse of his field. In this, Starscream is predictable. “Fortunately for you, you little sneak.”   
  
Starscream smirks. “Decepticon,” he all but sings, vocals tuned to a low purr that's more arousing than irritating.   
  
“Not anymore,” Ratchet huffs and plants his other hand on Starscream's ridiculously narrow waist, thumb stroking between an armor gap. “Now isn't there something you wanted from me?”  
  
“You are very poor at seduction, medic,” Starscream retorts, his hand sliding down Ratchet's chestplate so that a single talon can slip between the slats on his abdomen, gently scraping the sensitive protoform beneath.   
  
A shiver zings up Ratchet's backstrut. He tries to force it down. Starscream is far too skilled at this and the Seeker knows it. The last thing Ratchet needs to do is stroke an already over-sized ego.   
  
“Meanwhile,” Starscream continues, ex-venting heat as he leans in, “I am very, very talented.” His other hand strokes a long, decadent path down Ratchet's back, fingers teasing transformation seams with practiced motions.   
  
There's no hiding the shiver this time. Ratchet's plating shifts aside, giving the Seeker more access, heat winding in a steady flush throughout his frame.   
  
“All you had to do was ask,” Ratchet bites out, fingers squeezing a wing before loosening his grip, giving said wing a light pet, just enough to excite the sensors. “You didn't have to go through all this drama.”   
  
“Now where's the fun in that?” His helm slides against Ratchet's, a slow burr of metal against metal that's as intoxicating as it is arousing. He steps in, their chestplates colliding, and it's all Ratchet can do not to throw Starscream onto the berth. Though it's a near thing.   
  
“Your idea of fun and my idea of fun are two entirely separate things,” Ratchet says, careful to keep a hold of his grumble. Starscream's clever fingers are making short work of his substructure, sending little zings and shocks through his internals.   
  
More prevalent, still, is the thrum of Starscream's spark, tangible behind the chestplate pressed so intimately to Ratchet's own. It's a line they haven't crossed yet, touching or merging sparks, and they probably won't for quite some time. A couple of decades is nothing in the optics of a Cybertronian and as much as Ratchet likes Starscream, he's not ready for that step.   
  
Thankfully, neither is Starscream. Still, the nearness is tempting. The energy waves are inviting, Ratchet's own spark throbbing with interest, his chestplates juttering as though eager to split and have a taste.   
  
He distracts himself by turning his helm and capturing Starscream's lipplates instead, a wholly human technique that has fitted itself into their activities. Starscream, of all mechs, had been the one to try it.   
  
He'd “seen it on the internet” during his exile from the Nemesis. Ratchet is half-afraid to ask what else the Seeker had seen and wants to emulate because having befriended Miko, Ratchet knows what sort of ill activities the humans get up to, film and post for all and sundry to see.   
  
Thankfully, so far it's just been kissing, an act both alien and intimate, but all the more arousing for it. Their lip plating is surprisingly pliable, and the sensation of that thinner metal sliding against his own, shocks of static dancing between them, is too addictive to resist. Much like Starscream himself. Isn't that the cause of this all along?  
  
Seeker engines purr eagerly, vibrating both their frames. A small sound emerges from Starscream's vocalizer before he presses forward and Ratchet finds himself backpedaling a few steps until he hits the wall, Starscream trapping him against it.   
  
“There's a berth a few paces away,” Ratchet says, breaking away from the kiss.   
  
Starscream's mouth takes a short journey to Ratchet's intake, encouraging him to tilt his helm back. “You have no imagination, medic,” he retorts, one knee nudging between Ratchet's legs.   
  
“Is this something else you've seen on the internet?”   
  
Starscream's only answer is laugh at him, puffs of heated air slipping through the gaps in Ratchet's armor to caress the cables and wires beneath. He stifles a groan, hands clamping down on Starscream's hips as the Seeker presses them together in rhythmic motions. Jolts of electric bliss dance between them, setting Ratchet's sensornet ablaze.   
  
This time, he can't hide the groan, helm hitting the wall behind him as he surges forward to meet Starscream's frame. His cooling fans click on with a quiet whirr, struggling to defend against the heat that's flushed his entire frame.   
  
Starscream chuckles again, mouth tracing a trail upward, nibbling at Ratchet's jaw, his audial, and finally the point of his chevron. “I seem to remember you liking this,” he murmurs.   
  
His field crashes over Ratchet's, a deluge of lust peppered with need, as though Starscream's been holding back this entire time. Ratchet moans, fingers tightening in their grip, his fragging chestplate doing that unconscious flutter again. Traitorous spark!  
  
He's trapped against the wall, could probably escape if he really wanted, but Ratchet's had a lot of time to be honest with himself, and he doesn't. Want to escape, that is. What he does want is to wrap an arm around Starscream, crush the Seeker tighter against him, and let the static dance between their frames until they both overload themselves offline.   
  
Except that Starscream snatches his hands and pins them to the wall and now his frame is keeping Ratchet's own pinned and thin fingers are wrapped around Ratchet's wrists. His engine rumbles, vibrating both the wall and Starscream, whose pressed against him, thick Decepticon armor to sturdy Autobot plating.   
  
Charge leaps from Starscream's substructure, so close that it immediately winnows into Ratchet's own. Sensors light up with pleasure and there's something that sounds like a whimper and Ratchet realizes it's his own vocalizer making that noise.   
  
There's heat, lots and lots of heat as Starscream's frame thrums against his, putting off waves of heated air and static. His glossa does wicked things to Ratchet's chevron before he drags his mouth back down again, optics a dark, red gleam as they meet Ratchet's own.   
  
“Next time, I think I will use the berth,” Starscream murmurs, fingers squeezing Ratchet's wrists in intervals. “Only, I'll borrow some stasis cuffs so my hands are free.”   
  
Ratchet's ventilations hitch, already envisioning what Starscream is offering. His thoughts stutter to a grinding halt, lured in by the Seeker's promise.   
  
“I hear rumors, medic,” Starscream continues, still in that purring, even tone, his frame undulating in minute shifts against Ratchet's so that the pulses of static are nice and rhythmic. “And I suspect you are far more enticed with restraint than you let on.”   
  
Trust Starscream to suss out a mech's desire without him having to vocalize it. The sneaky Seeker has probably been poking around places he doesn't belong, talking to mechs he has no business talking to, just to try and catch Ratchet when he least expects it.   
  
“Tell me I'm wrong,” Starscream says and his fingers squeeze, just to the edge of discomfort and sensors that send a brief, cautionary message.   
  
Ratchet opens his mouth with the intention of spouting indignation, but what emerges better resembles a whine of need. He pushes against Starscream with his torso, not so much intending to escape as he is testing, and is rewarded with Starscream slamming him back against the wall. Not that there is much room to move in the first place. The point, however, is made well enough.   
  
He's trapped. He's not allowed to move. He's subject to Starscream's whims.   
  
Arousal slams into Ratchet so sharply that he shakes from helm to pede. Static leaps out, a show of need, and he moans.   
  
“That's what I thought,” Starscream says, smug to the tip of his twitching wings. “You stubborn medic, should have said something sooner.”   
  
It takes greater effort than Ratchet likes to drudge up a semblance of self-control. “You just want everything, you greedy fragger.”   
  
“Indeed.” Starscream's optical shutters droop to half-mast. “Everything you'll give me and more. Including that overload I can feel you holding back.”  
  
Ratchet manages a grating laugh. “You want it, you'll have to earn it.”   
  
He should have known better than to challenge a Seeker. Especially if that Seeker is Starscream.   
  
Red optics flare bright as Starscream steals his lips for another one of those kisses, his denta leaving nipping bites behind. His frame scrapes against Ratchet's in wonderful slides of metallic friction, sure to leave paint behind. His energy field rises up and crashes against Ratchet's, demanding entry and slicing through the meager protest Ratchet serves up. An onslaught of arousal batters at Ratchet's core, his spark spinning faster and faster, his ports pulsing with heat as though demanding to be filled.   
  
But Starscream never once reaches for his cables. He relies on his ability to drive Ratchet mad through tactile alone, through the relentless outpouring of lust in his energy field. And it's working.   
  
Ratchet's helm hits the wall again, a cry escaping him as Starscream attacks the sensitive metal at his throat. Pleasure bursts behind his optics and Ratchet shudders, trapped between Starscream and the wall and all the more aroused for it. He can feel the overload within him, like a force waiting to be unleashed, battering at his self-control. Starscream's denta scrape and tease his cables before latching on, just enough pressure to register as a bite.   
  
Ratchet drags in a heavy ventilation, but it's not enough to forestall the wave of pleasure that sweeps over him. His optics offline, mouth open in a soundless cry as overload strikes like a bolt of lightning. He writhes, trapped between his partner and the wall, electric charge licking out and snapping against Starscram's frame.  
  
Everything goes blank in the wake of white-hot bliss. Ratchet surrenders fully to it and collapses against the wall when the waves of pleasure subside, leaving him feeling drained and dry and a little off-balance. He sucks in air through his vents, desperate to cool his frame, but Starscream is still putting off heat against him and Ratchet's thoughts start to spin again as Starscream claims his mouth.   
  
Pride echoes in Starscream's field, the kiss ending as he gives Ratchet a hungry look. “That's one,” he says, smug to the fullest. “Think you can handle another?”   
  
“You don't have the bearings to outlast me,” Ratchet challenges, though the wobble in his knees gives lie to his boast.   
  
“I guess there's only way to find out.” He smirks and abruptly tugs Ratchet away from the wall, sending both of them on a stumbling course to the berth.   
  
Not a single protest enters Ratchet's processor, not even when they tumble onto the berth, Starscream's hands roaming without hesitation as though determined to send Ratchet into another roaring overload. It's not fair, Ratchet thinks, for Starscream to have this secret weapon.   
  
And he vows to the very core of his spark to find something to even the playing field. No way is he letting Starscream get away with taking advantage of Ratchet's secret kink.   
  
He'll find a way to make the Seeker scream in pleasure if it's the last thing he does. For now, however, Starscream can do however he wishes.   
  
An overload or five never killed a mech. And there'll be plenty opportunity for payback later. One way or another.   
  


***


End file.
